On Nostalgia

I sit under this tree, watching a block of air pass above my head. My breath escapes my mouth and the covers of my sight fall and raise. My hands lie out, under side up. My heart beats together with the green teeth that are many, flying round and away.

I bore my fingers into the ground and draw broken marks to call color up from down. The color moves in all directions before my sight until I open my mouth and breathe them all in. Red, blue, and green disappear.

He is not pleased. Talking, he also draws marks, but in the air. They are weird and points and edges do not meet up how they usually do. Instead of colors, sounds rush into the space. They are as empty as the wind and soon fall when his fingers stop moving. He nods his head toward mine.

I sigh and push the arms of my shirt up. The lines and corners are hard to build, especially doing so in the ground instead of in the air. The easy forms already dance at my sides. A point, a line, four lines touching, six of those put together. The next one puts those together even further, always rolling and shifting. It is said that the colors it makes are not possible without its help.

I cut the ground with the top of my finger and move my hands quickly. My brain closes and a flash of feeling takes over. I can't tell whether the forms have been made right but I don't want to chance a glance at them. I close my eyes.

It is dark at first. Light slowly builds shadows from the outside into my head. At first just a drop and then slowly growing out from the point of beginning, around and around and up and down and left and right and crossing and moving every which way until the entire space in front of me is full of nothing but light and shadows, dancing.

These are not colors. They are up and down in a place that is not this place.

by Dan Diehn (@diedan)

(This story was written with the assistance of Up-Goer Five. Check out http://splasho.com/upgoer5/ and https://xkcd.com/1133/ for more info.)